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I gawk at him. “What are you talking about?”
He tilts his head, side-eying me. “Come on, Anna. One piece of evidence contradicts our perfect narrative and you let him walk out of here?”
“He had an alibi.”
“And nothing else.” He counts on his fingers. “He had the murder weapon. We found his prints in Martin’s apartment. The bodies were covered in his hot sauce, for Christ’s sake.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Why would he do that? If he killed them, why would he make it so obvious?”
“Because he’s a fucking psychopath who wants attention!”
“No, he’s not.”
He snorts. “Are you listening to yourself right now? You don’t even know the guy and you’re his advocate?”
I take a breath. “It doesn’t make sense, Trevor. Milo being framed is the simpler explanation. The Quinns and the McGregors have been inching toward war for years. The streets are a damn powder keg and everyone knows it. Someone is using that to their advantage.”
“Why?” he asks.
I stutter. “I don’t know. A distraction?”
“From what?”
“Something bigger. Maybe the Shanks are still pulling strings from prison. Or maybe there are some Quinns and McGregors out there working together to take down Daniel’s drug ring and split the territory amongst themselves. Daniel is notorious for not playing well with others. Maybe the families have finally had enough. Or maybe there’s a third party we haven’t even considered yet that’s playing the families against each other for their own amusement.”
“Or maybe,” he leans forward, “we let a guilty man walk free. But please, tell me more about this simpler explanation.”
He pushes out of his chair and storms off. I bow my head, avoiding the eyes of others in the desks around me and I pretend to stare at my notes.
Is he right? Am I in too deep? Am I too close to this case that I can’t see the big picture anymore?
Am I bending evidence to make Milo look innocent, not because he is, but because I want him to be?
I reach into my pocket, feeling for the piece of paper stashed inside. I unfold it, reading Milo’s number scrawled across it. He said I could ask him anything but I can’t really trust a word he says, can I? How can I be sure everything he’s told me isn’t a cold, calculated lie?
I crumble the paper and drop it into my trash can.
CHAPTER 16
MILO
Ifeel a sick day coming on.
Or about a week’s vacation. That sounds better. No one will blame me. It’s been an interesting few days, to say the least.
Framed for murder. Twice.
Bullied by — not one — but two Irish mob families.
Oh, also, I have a daughter and maybe a little crush on her mother, but I’ve always been a sucker for the unattainable woman.
I drive the taco truck through Boston toward Daniel’s lot. Somehow, the little things that usually annoy me don’t. I don’t grit my teeth at the slow-moving Boston traffic or the constant, unending rain plaguing the streets for the last two weeks.
Instead, I feel warm. Possibly fuzzy. A little hungry. For the first time, the future feels different.
I don’t expect to be a part of Charlotte’s life. It’s not like that. But the world looks a little brighter because she’s in it. It’s strange — and scary — but I can’t explain it better than that.
I arrive at the lot and park the truck in its spot. I get out and count down the moments until I can go home. Go inside. Shoot the shit with Daniel for thirty seconds to see if we’re out of TBD territory yet. Leave. Hail a cab home and figure out what to do about Morgan McGregor.
